Goodbye To All That
by katia1
Summary: What really happened between Nigel, Preston and Amanda before Nigel left England to work with Sydney? And how did Preston get the job at the British Museum, instead of Nigel? My take on events.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: I don't own Relic Hunter, The British Museum or Starbucks Coffee. I don't make any money out of this. Shame, huh? But please do not reproduce any of it without my permission.

**This is a quick surprise for Tanya Reed and Ivoryrose - but also a big thanks to everybody who's been reviewing 'Legend of Sydney and Nigel'. You guys keep me going! I'll be updating that soon, but my increasingly Nigel-and-Preston-obsessed muse forced me to write this! I hope you enjoy it! It's also a two-shot - I couldn't quite manage a one-shot!!!**

Goodbye To All That

By Katy

After the interview, he _really _needed a coffee.

Unsteadily weaving between the slow-moving tourists, Nigel Bailey dodged out of the heavy, swinging front doors of the British Museum. He passed down the steps, under the pompously towering colonnades, and started across the vast ornamental forecourt.

A Japanese visitor jumped out in front of him, making him start, requesting that he took his picture. Nigel obliged, politely of course, but he wondered if the gentleman noticed his hands were shaking, or realised that the photo would be blurred. He thanked the sightseer as he gave back the camera, as if he was the one who had been done the favour.

As he passed out of the gates of the complex, two pungent scents tantalised Nigel's senses: the smell of the hot chestnuts that always roasted there, in the street-vendor's crude, round metal oven, and that of the hotdog stall. Both were appealing, but neither would do. His eyes fixed on his destination, Nigel stepped unthinkingly into the gutter, splashing in a dirty, brown puddle and sending a scruffy feral pigeon flapping in the air. A motorcyclist, who had been just starting up from the verge, revved his engine and muttered something loudly about 'dozy sods not looking where they're going', as Nigel scuttled across the road and straight into Starbucks.

Once through the door, he loosened his tie. Although the sky was steely, it was a muggy August day, and Nigel felt crumpled and sweaty in his grey interview suit. He then scrambled to find some change in his pocket and ordered a takeaway 'tall latte'. A second later, he changed his mind.

'Sorry', he called across to the man behind the counter, who was just marking up a paper mug. 'May I possibly change that to, err, an 'extra grande double mocha with whipped cream and marshmallows' to drink-in, please?'

The café worker nodded, without cracking his grim face, and carelessly cast aside the disposable cup in favour of a giant, white china mug. Nigel passed over the extra money, wincing apologetically, and hurried down to the end of the counter to wait for his beverage. He was already beginning to regret his impetuous moment of indulgence.

………………………………………….

Nigel slipped onto a high stall at a bench-like table, which ran along the front window of the café. He stared blankly back across at the museum. Had the interview gone well, he wondered? Who could tell?

It certainly hadn't gone badly. The interrogation board – all seven of them - had clearly been impressed by his raw talent, enthusiasm, and glowing references. They'd agreed that he'd spent the three years since he graduated from Oxford - with a double first honours degree, no less - very well. Working as a research assistant, to a Professor of Ancient Mesopotamia at Cambridge, Nigel had achieved an MPhil qualification within his first year on the job. By now he had lumped together enough of his own research, on top of his duties for his employer, to be very nearly ready to start writing a PhD thesis. On top of this, he had museum experience. He'd spent a month each summer cataloguing and researching the collections at the Sir John Soane's museum, tucked behind the Inns of Court. A tiny cottage of a museum, compared to the magisterial palace of wonders to which he now offered his services, Soane's museum was a cave of antiquated treasures, gathered by an early 19th century collector. Nigel had identified the origins of many pieces that nobody else had been able to understand in two hundred years, and translated ancient texts that the other curators thought simply untranslatable.

Yes, in his own, small way, Nigel Bailey was starting to make a name for himself - but he had a nasty feeling it wouldn't be enough to bag him the job. He had stammered rather too much as he answered questions about his future plans and ambitions. He was 24-years-old, for goodness sake - how could he possibly know? Then the faint lines of a frown had creased across the director's face as Nigel tried to explain away his lack of experience 'in the field'. No, he'd never been on an archaeological dig outside of England. But he was keen to learn! And he'd read, oh, _so many _reports of such excavations that he was sure he'd fit straight in! Oh, and no, he didn't have much teaching experience…

At the end of the interview, it had all been smiles and handshakes. They'd wished him luck, and told him he was a brilliant young man. They just had one more candidate to see, and he'd hear from them tomorrow, one way or the other.

Nigel took a sip of his coffee, licked the lingering cream off his lips, and tried to cast the whole traumatic incident from his mind. He'd done his best - what more could he do? He popped a marshmallow in his mouth and began rolling it around his tongue.

It was then he saw his brother. Even though the tall, smart-suited figure was still at some distance, Nigel knew it was Preston instantly, as one always does with family members. He was just passing down the steps of the museum, and now he was striding confidently across the forecourt.

'Oh hell,' thought Nigel. '_You're _the last thing I need!'

To Nigel's chagrin, Preston had known that he was applying for the new job. The younger brother's girlfriend, Amanda, who they'd both met through a mutual friend, had let it slip. She was hopeless like that! Still, Preston hadn't known when the actual interview was. 'What is he doing here?' thought Nigel crossly. 'Surely he should be at work …oh, bloody hell, he's coming this way!'

Praying that Preston wasn't in the mood for coffee, and was heading for the nearby second-hand bookshop instead, Nigel grabbed a newspaper that a previous café-dweller had left on the table. He opened it at a random page in front of his face, all the while peeping surreptitiously around the side.

He groaned internally as Preston walked straight into Starbucks. The elder brother didn't order a take-away. He ordered a double espresso, drink-in.

Ducking right down behind the newspaper, Nigel's eyes registered the page he had it opened upon for the first time. The peachy, swelling curves of a naked female form filled his vision. He began choking on his marshmallow.

Coughing loudly, Nigel tried to turn the page over, but the pages of _The Sun _flopped down and half of them slipped completely from his fumbling hands. Most of people in the café started staring at him, including Preston, who was just picking up his espresso from the end of the counter. There was no denying knowledge of his brother now. There was no denying it for either of them.

Nigel, blushing bright pink, swallowed the dastardly marshmallow with an effort and took a large gulp of coffee. Preston nodded an embarrassed greeting to his wayward sibling and began weaving his way through the tables to join him. His joyless expression resembled that of the father of a two-year-old who had just had a very public tantrum.

'Nigel - I didn't expect to see you here.' He pulled out a stall next to Nigel's, and sat down.

'Likewise,' said Nigel, and then coughed again. He took another sip of his coffee, as Preston swiped up the copy of _The Sun_, and tossed it away onto an empty chair, a little way off.

'Really, I hope you didn't _buy _that! It's bad enough that you're happy to be seen reading this trash in public, let alone wasting your money on it!'

Nigel gritted his teeth and smiled viciously. 'I didn't buy it. I was just…just… checking out the weather forecast.'

'Oh,' said Preston, his tongue slipping into his cheek. 'I believe you, thousands wouldn't. The weather looks good on page 3, does it?'

'I _wasn't _looking at page 3!' protested Nigel. 'I hate that rubbish! It's so… so… degrading…for men as well as women.'

'If you say so,' said Preston, his supercilious tone making it blatantly clear he didn't believe a word Nigel said. 'I wouldn't have thought, with a beautiful girl like Amanda in tow, you'd be needing such cheap fixes…anyway, how did the interview go?'

For a second, Nigel was confused. Then he narrowed his eyes. 'How did you know I was here for the interview? A moment ago, you said you weren't expecting to see me.'

Preston blanched, and then spoke very fast: 'Well, I knew you'd applied for a job here, and I can't think of any other reason you're not in Cambridge, or at the British Library, at this time of day. I just put two and two together, that's all.'

'Oh,' said Nigel flatly. 'Fair enough. Well, it went okay, I suppose. I'm not getting my hopes up, though.'

'No?' Preston cocked his head and the edge of his lips twitched into a little smile. 'Well, never mind. There'll be plenty more opportunities coming up, won't there? Why don't you stay at Cambridge - get that PhD?'

Nigel shrugged, hardly glowing with enthusiasm. 'Maybe I will… but what are _you _doing here? Spying for the V and A?'

He summoned up a cheeky grin. Preston had been a curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in Kensington, for the past seven years. He had risen fast there - Preston, too, in a rather more showy way than Nigel, was making a name for himself as an expert on relics from the mediaeval and early modern worlds.

'No,' said Preston, firmly. 'I have an afternoon off.'

'It's a bit of a busman's holiday, then, going to a museum!'

Preston took a large swig of his espresso, grimacing slightly at its bitterness. 'I love history, Nigel. You know that.'

'Yes…' began Nigel, suspicion sparking deep inside. Preston was clever and talented, but he'd never been as passionate as Nigel about what they did. Indeed, he normally spent his days off on the golf course, or pursuing the hopeless cause that was his love life in expensive restaurants and wine bars. 'I'm just surprised, that's all,' continued Nigel. ' It hardly the best time to visit the British Museum, in the summer like this, when it's packed with tourists. And, you're wearing a work suit…'

'I am _very _interested in the new 'Enlightenment' exhibition! Really, do I have to justify to you _everything _I do in my free-time?'

'No,' replied Nigel, retaliating with a glare. He was starting to wish that his drink wasn't so large and yummy; he was absolutely dying to get out of there!

Preston's cross expression softened suddenly. 'To tell you the truth,' he confessed, 'things haven't been going too well for me at the Victorian and Albert, lately. I've felt a little… held back. But, enough about me! You're the one who's had the big day - are you staying over in London tonight?'

'I, uh, thought I'd get back to Cambridge.'

'To that grotty little bed-sit? That's hardly the place for future employee of the British Museum, eh? Why don't you come back for dinner? Sleep in your own bed, for a change.'

Nigel scanned his mind frantically for an excuse. He hadn't been home since last Christmas, and _that _little family reunion had hardly ended amicably. He didn't really think of his room, at the family home in suburban London, as _his _anymore. Not that Preston had changed much, but with the elder brother as 'King of the Castle' - and without mum and dad - it just wasn't the same. Still, it was his childhood home, full of happy, comforting, if sometimes painful, memories. His desire to flee was overcome by an instinctual pang for the warm and familiar.

'All right,' he replied slowly. 'I guess it will be good to avoid the evening commuter trains.'

'Great.' Preston downed the remainder of his espresso and bounced to his feet. 'I've got a couple of other bits and bobs to sort out in town, but dinner will be at seven, as ever. See you then!' He took two steps towards the door, and then stopped abruptly, as if he'd had an afterthought.

'Uh - I suggest that you remove that, um, large blob of whipped cream from the end of your nose before you leave the café. Bye.'

'What…eh? Bugger!' Nigel scrambled to wipe the offending whiteness from his face, his cheeks flushing an even brighter scarlet than they had earlier. There was no way he could stay there and finish his pricey drink now. He slid inconspicuously down off the stall, inadvertently catching the eye of a young woman sitting at a nearby table, peeping at him over her book.

She smiled warmly, keenly even.

'Oh God,' thought Nigel. 'The whole place is laughing at me!' He mustered a brief, embarrassed smile then turned, and fled.

The girl's heart sank as she watched Nigel – and his criminally cute backside - run across the road. Once he was on the other side, her view of him with eclipsed by a double-decker bus.

'Ah well,' she thought herself. 'It was nice while it lasted.' She'd been watching Nigel like a hawk since he'd entered the café. He'd brightened up her day - guys that gorgeous _don't_ sit down at the table next to you on a regular basis. All her efforts to catch his eye, however, had failed - apart from at the last, but he obviously hadn't been interested. Shame - given half a chance, she would have happily licked whipped cream off his entire, naked body…

'Knowing my luck, he was probably gay anyway.' She returned to her well-thumbed copy of 'Le Morte d'Arthur' by Sir Thomas Malory, casually wondering if he, and the tall, blond guy he'd been squabbling with, were lovers.

**Conclusion to follow shortly! Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks so much to everybody who reviewed the first part of this. Here is the conclusion! For those of you waiting on the next chapter of 'Legend,' I promise it is in the pipeline :)**** This naughty piece just insisted on being written first! **

**This sort of story is new territory to me, so please let me know what you think. PLEASE REVIEW!!**

……………………………………

'So, here we are, then,' said Preston, as Nigel sat down on the settee opposite, a glass of red wine in his hand.

'Here we are,' echoed Nigel, forcing a lopsided smile. He very nearly hadn't come, having been understandably annoyed about the 'cream on nose' incident. Nevertheless, the same wave of sentiment that had pressed him to agree in the first place had compelled him to see it through. Granted, he and his brother had had their 'differences'. But maybe, conjectured Nigel, it was time they put that behind them and grew up a bit - if just in honour of mum and dad's memory? After all, how long should one hold a grudge about six years of hell at boarding school and five stolen girlfriends?

Okay, so it still rankled! But Preston certainly was being quite congenial tonight. Maybe he really had changed a bit?

'Dinner won't be long, then,' chirped Preston, breaking the awkward silence. 'So, I take it you haven't heard yet - about the job, I mean?'

Nigel winced. 'They said I'd hear tomorrow, remember. I think I'd rather forget about it for tonight.'

'Quite, quite,' nodded Preston earnestly. 'So, let's see what we can do to take your mind off it. How about a quick burst on the old piano, eh? I'm sure I've still got some duets stashed away somewhere.' Preston was already rummaging through reams of sheet music stored in the piano stool. 'Ah, here we are. How about some Mozart? Remember how quickly we used to play that duet adapted from Don Giovanni? Mother would be screaming for peace before the end - and I'm sure the composer was turning in his grave!'

'I'd, uh, rather not,' said Nigel, taking a swig from his glass of fine Bordeaux. 'I haven't had much opportunity to practice up in Cambridge - I'd never keep up. You play if you like.'

'Don't mind if I do.' Sitting down at the stool, his fingers began tripping effortlessly over the keys, the notes shaping perfectly into the opening of an extremely difficult, but rather dreary, prelude by Bach. There was no music on the stand - it all streamed from his memory.

Nigel's focus wandered over to the large display of family pictures on the back of the grand piano and a dreamy, nostalgic smile drifted across his face. Preston watched his brother as he rose from his seat and sauntered over, lifting out a family portrait snapped twenty years ago on the beach at Bognor Regis.

Nigel remembered precious little about that day - about that holiday, even - apart from squabbling with Preston and sulking because he'd dropped his lolly. Indeed, it seemed impossible now that he had ever been that small, that chubby and, despite life's little trials, so uncomplicatedly happy. In the picture, they _all _looked happy - even Preston. He was holding a brand-new toy sailing boat, and appeared very pleased with himself. Then there was mum and dad, proudly clasping the hands of their two, clever little boys. They looked so loving, so content - so alive.

Nigel suddenly felt as if he was looking at a relic of the ancient past. 'Its no more than history now,' he thought to himself morbidly. His mum and dad seemed as lost as the pharaohs in the mists of time.

The prickle of tears in the back of his eyes was inevitable. Nigel turned away hastily, chewing his bottom lip, and hurried to the far side of the room.

Preston, still regarding his brother intently, changed the piece he was playing as fluently as the turn of the tide. He began chiming out a Brahms waltz. 'Remember this?' he asked. 'It was mother's favourite!'

'Of course I do,' replied Nigel snappily, his eyes fixed blindly on the fading Victorian landscape painting that hung above the fireplace – anywhere, but upon his brother. 'Please don't…' he whispered, the words catching in his throat. Preston didn't hear - but the sudden consciousness of mother's gaze upon him, courtesy of a photo propped up by the music stand, caused him to stop playing abruptly. Momentarily questioning his casual vindictiveness, he threw down the wooden lid down over the piano keys with a bang.

'Surely dinner must be ready, by now?' he said cheerily. 'I'll go find out what's happening - back in a mo'!'

He strolled from the room, leaving Nigel angrily wiping the back of his sleeve across moist eyes. He shouldn't have come – he knew that now. If Preston hadn't got old Bessie in to cook them dinner, he would have left there and then

…………………………..

'Yorkshire pud doesn't really go with fillet steak, of course,' said Preston, proudly pointing to the silver tureens on the table. 'But I know it's your favourite, and Bessie insisted. You know how she likes to treat you! You'd better pop down and see her after dinner - she'd love that!'

'Does Bessie still cook for you often?' asked Nigel, mainly through want of anything else to say.

'Don't be daft,' spluttered Preston. 'Only when I have guests - I think she appreciates the cash, though, what with Mr. Bessie having passed on. And tonight I thought _you'd_ like it - for old time's sake. Now, come on, help yourself. You must be hungry after the day's endeavours.'

Nigel's stomach was, indeed, grumbling, although he didn't feel much like eating. The butterflies from earlier had not yet calmed down, and he was also nervous about a call he'd been expecting from Amanda. She'd want to know how the interview had gone and he wouldn't know quite what to say to her. She'd been desperate for him to get the job.

'She's sweet like that,' mused Nigel to himself. 'She always wants the best for me.'

Even this thought, however, didn't console him. She'd hardly been 'sweet' which she'd grilled him about his prospects of success. She'd been bloody intense!

'What the hell,' thought Nigel resignedly. He helped himself to a large slice of juicy meat, two Yorkshire puddings, a pile of carrots and half a dozen roast potatoes.

'Take it easy, Podge,' chortled Preston. 'Leave something for me!'

'I wish you wouldn't call me that,' muttered Nigel, as he poured on a generous amount of gravy. 'It's completely unjustified.'

'I'm not sure it will be after you've eaten all that lot…' Preston broke off, as Nigel scowled at him. 'Oh, lighten up. It's just a joke!'

'Ha ha,' said Nigel joylessly, and tucked into a healthy mouthful. As he finished chewing, he added: 'Oh and regarding that newspaper earlier – your accusations about my interest in its, err, contents, were not only totally unfounded - they were unbelievably hypocritical! Who was it who sneaked off with Great Uncle Horatio's collection of Victorian porn, nabbing it from his house the day after he died?' He smirked at last. 'I think it was you, Preston Bailey!'

'Those were art-house photos,' protested Preston. 'Besides, they are of great historical value.'

'Oh yes,' replied Nigel sardonically, reaching for the wine to fill his glass again. 'So, I take it those copies of _Playboy_, which Mum found under your mattress in 1987, were of 'great historical value' too?'

Preston tried to be offended, but found he simply wasn't. 'You little sod!' he exclaimed, bursting into laughter. 'Fancy remembering that – I'd completely forgotten! Goodness, she was mad, wasn't she? Poor old Mum - I think she found it hard, her little boys growing up.'

Nigel stared into his brim-full wine glass. 'I think she would have got used to it.'

'No doubt,' smiled Preston, his voice tinged with affection. 'It's good to recall, though, isn't it? Nobody can remember them like we do - we should do this more often, Nigel.'

Nigel glanced over at him, almost wordless. 'Maybe.'

His mobile rang loudly, causing him to jolt his wine, slopping some of the deep red liquid down the front of his pale blue interview shirt as well as across the tablecloth.

'Oh, bugger - sorry, I've got to answer this.'

'The lovely Amanda, I suppose?'

Nigel nodded peevishly, and dashed from the room, leaving Preston wondering how Nigel _always _got all the luck with women. The twit hardly seemed to notice! He'd always fancied Amanda - but she'd only ever had eyes for Nigel. Hell - if that bookish girl in the café earlier had been staring at he, Preston, like she'd been sizing up Nigel, it would have been _her _Preston would have been wining and dining tonight, not his younger brother!

………………………………………….

When Nigel returned, only a minute later, Preston knew that something was wrong. He also had a nasty feeling he knew exactly _what _was wrong.

'That wasn't Amanda,' said Nigel, gravely. 'It was the British Museum. Apparently, they narrowed the field down to just me and one other chap, but…' The rest of his words were superfluous.

'Oh, bad luck, old fellow!' Preston rose but did not move from his place, instead hovering uncertainly. 'I thought… I thought we weren't hearing until tomorrow?'

Nigel slumped back down into his chair, now feeling very far from hungry. 'They made up their mind early, I suppose.'

'Well, never mind' sighed Preston, as he sat back down, thankful the 'scene' had been minimal. 'There'll be plenty more jobs, I'm sure.'

'But not like that one,' said Nigel, his voice betraying the hint of a whine. 'Not only would have I got the chance to help in the finding and interpretation of exhibits, it was tied up with a fellowship at the Historical Research Institute - the lucky sod who got the post is going to get to carry out his own research, and teach courses to students there! It sounded perf…oh, hell, I might as well forget about it now.'

'I would imagine they thought you were a little young and inexperienced for that sort of responsibility,' said Preston, matter-of-factly. 'Now, come on. Eat up your dinner, and we'll think no more about it.'

Nigel just glowered at his plate.

'Chin up! There's sticky toffee pudding for desert! Your favourite!' Preston sounded like a condescending parent coaxing a small child to finish their greens. Nevertheless, Nigel looked up, smiled cringingly, and popped a forkful of carrot in his mouth. Preston was still as patronising as hell but Nigel was starting to wonder if maybe he had reformed a bit. His brother was at least _trying _to be nice – just at the moment when he really needed it.

Then his phone rang again, even louder and more jarringly than before. Nigel leapt up like a rabbit in the line of gunfire. 'It…it could be them! Maybe they've changed their mind - they said, if anything went wrong with the other fellow they'd come straight back to me!'

Nigel sprinted from the room and slammed the door behind him, leaving his brother to stare morosely at the cooling dinner.

………………………………..

'Hello! This is Nigel Bailey! Oh…oh, hi Pigeon.'

'Did you get it, Nigel? Please tell me you did!'

Nigel took a deep breath. 'Sorry. It was close, apparently. Just between me and one other candidate, but…'

'Oh.' Amanda was silent. 'That's a real shame, you know.'

'I know, but there'll be other jobs! I'll keep looking, I promise - something even more amazing will come up soon, I just know it. Things will really start to happen for us …'

'Yes, but _how _soon,' interrupted Amanda. 'I'm sorry, Nigel, but I'm not sure I can commit myself to a man whose pay-check is _always _going to be a pittance! This job would have been a step up, but…'

'I'm sorry,' pleaded Nigel. 'I'll try harder. But, you know, I'd be a historical researcher for no pay at all! I'm just passionate about what I do - I can't even imagine being anything else. I could never work in the city, or in a bank… '

'I know you couldn't, pooh-bear,' sighed Amanda. 'But Cynthia's boyfriend's consultancy firm gets her centre-court tickets at Wimbledon every year. With _you_ I had to queue up in the street with the plebs! And your flat - it's not even a flat, is it? It's a hovel!'

'It's not _that _bad,' said Nigel, now slightly irritated. 'But it will be worth the wait. I'll make it, I promise…'

'Make it at what, Nigel? To be a museum curator? A history professor? If you were proposing to be an adventurer like Indiana Jones, or something glamorous, it might make a difference. But it's hardly likely, is it?'

'No, its not.' said Nigel dully.

'It would be better if you already had money, like Preston. No doubt, they thought he was far more appropriate for the…' She emitted what sounded like a hiccup and went silent.

'More appropriate for the what?' asked Nigel.

'Oh, nothing,' said Amanda dismissively. 'All I'm saying is that, had he applied for the post at the museum, he probably would have had the experience and gravitas for the job that you lacked. But it's not like he needs it, is it? Just out of interest, how much _is _he worth?'

By this time, Nigel was shaking with righteous anger. Amanda wasn't usually like this - she was more often sweet, to the point of being cloying and clingy. She'd enquired before if Nigel would ever get a sniff of the family money, but she'd never been this blunt – not in the whole five months they'd been together. On the other hand, he knew she'd pinned a lot of hopes on his getting the job.

'You'd better ask my brother about his own financial affairs,' he replied, manfully mastering his emotions. 'When… when will I see you? We can talk about this then.'

There was another silence, and Nigel heard Preston's house phone ring out in the background. It was answered, or rang off, quickly. 'I'm not sure, Nigel,' answered Amanda at length. 'I think maybe we should take a break from each other.'

'No! Please don't say that - look, Pigeon, I'm sorry, I've have had a bad day. I didn't mean to be short with you.'

'Well you were!' snapped Amanda. 'My emotions are a little fragile right now and being shouted at by you is the last thing I can stand.' She let out a bedraggled sob. 'I'll call you next week…maybe.'

With that, the line went dead.

………………………….

When Nigel staggered back into the dining-room, Preston was standing rigidly behind his chair as if he had just arrived back. He was quite red in the face and spoke very quickly.

'Nigel - there you are! Was that Amanda? I hope she offered you some TLC - poor old chap! It's been a rough day, hasn't it? Never mind, pudding will be here in a moment. Take a seat again and I'll get some desert wine.'

Nigel didn't take a seat. 'It _was_ Amanda…but…but…'

'Oh,' said Preston. His mouth hung open, momentarily, like a goldfish - even from the other side of the room, Nigel could sense his brother's heart was beating very fast. He also noticed that Preston couldn't bring himself to look him in the eye.

'Oh dear,' continued Preston. 'She wasn't very sympathetic, then?'

Niger shook his head silently, and gazed at his practically untouched meal. Then there was a chink. A chunky set of car keys had landed on the table, right beside Nigel's place.

'They're for the BMW convertible,' garbled Preston. 'Take it – go on, take Amanda down to Brighton for the day. No, take her to Eastbourne. She'd prefer that, because it's so much quieter. Treat her to dinner at The Grand - I'll make out a bankers cheque.'

That clinched it.

Nigel looked up. Preston looked away.

'You got the job, didn't you?'

'I…I…I…'

'Can't you even say it straight to me? That's what this was all about, wasn't it? I thought you were being…nice for a change! How wrong I was!'

Nigel hadn't even raised his voice, although Preston wished he had. Hysteria he could cope with, but Nigel's delivery seemed to be fuelled by deeply burning anger. Frankly, it scared him.

'You've got the wrong idea,' flustered Preston. 'I didn't think either of us would hear until tomorrow, and I thought that tonight we'd have a good chinwag, and then we could discuss this like adults.'

'Why didn't you just tell me, today in the café – or even before?' Nigel's voice began to crack, ever so slightly. 'You usually seem perfectly adept with using a telephone!'

'Because I knew you'd overreact like this.' The wind of self-righteousness was beginning to billow in Preston's sails. 'You always do! You behave as if everything was some sort of personal insult - it wasn't! I haven't been getting on well at the V&A - I needed that job more than you.'

'But…but… you only heard about it through Amanda! It's not like it was advertised in the _Education Guardian _- the candidates were by recommendation only. Professor Bluthus nominated me – how did _you _even get an interview?'

'Oh, God,' Preston raised a hand to his brow in exasperation. 'You're so naïve! One of these days you're going to learn that getting on in life is not about how many books you've read, or even how many Egyptian hieroglyphs you can translate at the drop of a hate. It's about playing golf with the right people! It's about what old school tie you wear – and it's only thanks to _me_ that you happen to wear the right one!'

Nigel knew he had just a second to get out of there, before he either burst into tears or plunged the carving knife straight into Preston's heart. He wished he had something intelligent, witty and cutting to say - but who could be eloquent at a time like that?

'You stole it from me!' cried Nigel, his voice sounding somewhere between a shout and a loud whine. Then he left the room.

'Oh…oh, damn,' muttered Preston, and gave chase.

Nigel was already out of the front door and half way down the drive. 'Don't be so melodramatic!' shouted the elder brother, stopping in the doorway. 'Come back! It'll take you hours to get back to Cambridge – it's getting dark _and _it's starting to rain!'

The rain was not enough, however, to disguise the tears that were now trickling down Nigel's face. His fate was sealed, then: he could _not _turn around. On the contrary, he started to run.

……………………………………….

Although he doubted Preston would come after him, Nigel didn't go to the nearest bus stop. Despite the persistent drizzle in the air, he went to one a couple of miles off, having crossed the godforsaken golf course, dodged through some tennis courts, and passed a rather rundown parade of shops. He didn't feel any better by then, and he'd ripped the hem of his best interview suit on some nettles, but it gave him time to gather in his emotions before he had to show his face in public. He might look like a tramp, he reasoned, but at least nobody would see Nigel Bailey cry!

It was only when he sat down on the cracked, red plastic seat in the deserted bus shelter that he realised how utterly drained he was. His muscles and his emotions were just screaming for respite, although he knew that was a long way off - even when he did finally get back to Cambridge, how was he supposed to sleep? In the course of that single day he'd failed to get his dream job, his relationship with his girlfriend had foundered on some particularly jagged rocks, and his brother… Oh God! Where should he start with his brother?

His head flopped down into his hands, as he wondered if he could ever stomach seeing his brother or his childhood home again. His heart felt like it had been run over by a combine harvester - he wished he could just rip it out and never feel anything again… then he realised the tears were on their way back. He had to fight it!

Opening his eyes, Nigel realised the sole of his once-shiny leather shoe had stuck to a piece of newspaper. Pulling it off irritably, he noticed it was part of that day's _Education Guardian_, a journal he normally read avidly because it always had the best academic jobs. He had not bought it that morning - he'd been so caught up in his interview preparation he'd forgotten it was Tuesday. Nigel dully wondered if he'd jinxed himself with this blasé oversight.

Still, it was good to have something to read, even if it was only a page. It would take his mind off other things. Registering with an ironic grunt that it was part of the jobs section, Nigel raised the ragged sheet to his lap.

The first few ads were jarringly useless: a lecturer at Warwick University, a postdoctoral research post at Durham. They all required teaching experience and a PhD. Then his focus was drawn to a tiny little box in the corner.

He recognised the names instantly: Trinity University, New England. A teaching assistant was required for Professor Sydney Fox.

'Professor Sydney Fox!' exclaimed Nigel, out loud. He'd read _all _her papers - she was a legend among _all _the ancient studies grad. students: rumour had it that, as well as being one of the brightest lights in academia, she was an uncommonly handsome woman!

'Wow! But she is bound to want somebody established in the field'.

Nigel read on. 'No experience required,' proclaimed the advertisement. 'A skill with ancient languages and enthusiasm is a must!'

A spark of hope kindled deep inside. At that moment, unsurprisingly, there was something distinctly appealing about applying for a job on the other side of the world.

'I'll never get it, of course,' he murmured. 'Although it says 'no experience required', they don't really mean it - but I might as well give it a shot.'

As the bus finally pulled up at the stop, Nigel scrunched the paper into his pocket feeling strangely fortified and already considering how he should brush up his CV before he posted it to the other side of the Atlantic. He was young, he was bright - he had his whole life ahead of him. Besides, after a day like that, he told himself, even Nigel Bailey was due a little bit of luck…

…………………………

One month later, Preston Bailey returned wearily to his house, a microwave meal stuffed in his bag in anticipation of an eight o'clock dinner.

A seven o'clock dinner on a weeknight was now a distant dream. There had been pressure on him to deliver at his new job, right from the start. The promised time for his own research had never materialised - and his new boss was a complete fascist!

He'd had few words of support on his first day, and there had never been a friendly face waiting for him when he returned home in the evening. He hadn't even _heard _from his brother – bloody Nigel! As far as he knew, the little sod was still skulking around Cambridge, but he'd never returned that call that Preston had made to his digs. Didn't he know that, when his elder brother came in tired, those omnipresent pictures of his parents made me him wonder where he was? Sometimes, he even woke in the middle of the night and thought of Nigel, worrying if he was ill, hurt or alone, and that it was all his, the elder brother's, fault - it was absolutely ridiculous! It was exhaustion talking, he knew that, but it bothered him, nevertheless…

Preston slammed his sweet-and-sour chicken into the microwave and set it for two-and-a-half minutes. Then the phone rang.

He trudged tiredly to the hall, and answered it after the sixth ring.

'Bailey residence.' Preston smothered a yawn.

'Preston - it's Amanda.'

'Oh, hullo Amanda. How are you?'

'Not bad, thank you very much. I was wondering - could you let me have Nigel's new address?'

'I didn't know he'd moved,' groaned Preston. That explained why his call hadn't been returned! 'I hope he's upgraded - having him lolling about that bed-sit was embarrassing.'

'You _did _know he was in the States, though, didn't you?'

Preston's jaw dropped. 'Yes… of course,' he stuttered.

'It's quite a prestigious placement, isn't it?' continued Amanda wistfully. 'Trinity University is one of the best institutions on the east coast, and Professor Sydney Fox - well, her reputation says it all! The world's foremost Relic Hunter! Heaven knows what use she's found for my little Pooh-bear – ah well, I doubt it is a long-term contract.'

'No, I shouldn't think so,' agreed Preston, hardly believing what he was hearing. 'That must be why he hasn't sent me address yet - I expect he doesn't know how long he is going to be staying out there, and all that. So… he wrote to you then?'

'Yes,' sighed Amanda. 'But he only gave me his news - there was no return address. I don't know! He could have at least given me his new e-mail! I _really _need to speak to him - in haste, I believe I said a few things that I rather regret. Oh well, I suppose I could try contacting him through Trinity University.'

'That might work.' Preston started as the microwave beeped loudly. 'Oh, I'm terribly sorry, that's my dinner ready. Do you mind if I call you back?'

'Err,' Amanda hesitated, searching for an answer. 'I'm going out later. Sorry.'

'Oh,' replied Preston, slightly dejected. 'How about tomorrow, then? Or maybe I could take you out to dinner, sometime - we can decide how we will cheer up Nigel when he gets back from the bright lights of the US of A!'

'That might be nice,' said Amanda uncertainly. 'But please don't call me – _I'll _be in touch, Preston, I promise. Goodbye for now, then.'

'Goodbye,' said Preston, as she hung up on him. Then he returned to the kitchen to eat his ready-meal alone.

……………………………………………..

Several thousand miles away, Nigel Bailey was snuggled up inside a sleeping bag - wide awake! Somewhere in the wilds of Alaska, he was sharing a small tent with two zany, if slightly scary, rival relic hunters, and his beautiful, vivacious new boss - who just happen to be snuggled close against him, sharing the same bed roll!

Of course, he could never get to sleep like this - but who cared? Adrenalin raced through his veins, pounded in his temples. They were in the middle of one of the most exciting hunts yet, seeking the lost jade sarcophagus of an ancient Chinese emperor's bride. Moreover, if that pretty Claudia was only a _little_ cleverer than she seemed - which he suspected she was - there appeared to be a chance that Sydney might just fancy him!

Okay, that was a long shot, but it didn't really matter – he got to spend time with the woman! Even if he did wish there was a little more quiet teaching, and rather fewer life-or-death-experiences, it was undeniably thrilling. He'd never felt so wonderfully alive!

He cast his mind back to the previous month - to London, to the British Museum, to Amanda and Preston. Everything had seemed so bleak – yet somehow he had chosen the unthinkable, broached forbidden boundaries and his world had been completely transformed. He wasn't sure if Sydney would ever realise just how _different_ his life had once been - how he'd ripped himself away from the people, places and dreams, the cultural norms and the ways of life, that he once believed he couldn't live without.

'Good bye,' whispered Nigel, not without a sting of regret. 'Goodbye to all that.'

He shuddered with excitement as Sydney stirred. He felt her warm flesh brush against him; her hot breath tickled his neck as she leaned over to whisper in his ear. 'Good heavens!' he thought to himself, unable to suppress his desire. 'What _is_ she going to suggest?'

Nigel's memories deserted him. Even his sentiments of a moment ago were now nothing more to him than the title of a memoir he had once read.

'Goodbye to all that!'

THE END

**Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my first foray into missing scene/'slice of life' territory. Please, please, please review. **


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